


Trigeminy

by faerymorstan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ambiguity, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff and Angst, Holidays, I Wanted To Write More But I Am A Hot-Ass Mess, I'm Sorry, Multi, Platonic Cuddling, Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts, Therapy, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 14:42:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5094506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faerymorstan/pseuds/faerymorstan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://medical-dictionary.thefreedictionary.com/trigeminy">trigeminy [tri-jem´ĭ-ne]: the condition of occurring in threes, especially the occurrence of three pulse beats in rapid succession</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trigeminy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ShinySherlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinySherlock/gifts).



> cuddles, IT CHRISTMAS feels, suffering!john, and cheeky!mary for my shiny, with mucho love. ,3

The rain stopped two hours before sunrise, and John Watson, one arm folded beneath his head, his bare feet fidgeting on the thin quilt beneath him, closed his eyes and pretended that it was a firefight that was _rat-tat-tat_ ing on the roof as the cacophony faded to a stern patter, then a murmur, then a silence. Daylight found him; a brackish wind shouldered its way past the window; rush hour honked and rumbled past. Admitting, finally, that he would not fall back to sleep, John made the bed, sat stiff-backed at the edge of the flat’s single chair, and stared into the wardrobe.

_Loose_ and _comfortable_ and _modest_ and _make sure to cover any and ALL tattoos_ : that was how Ella had instructed him to dress. It should have been a simple task - the directions were straightforward - but there were Ella’s words ( _it’s a hard time to be alone,_ she’d said, gentle and without pity, _the holidays, and a worse time to be alone and in recovery_ ), and there were John’s clothes mute before him, and connecting the two - _acting_ on connecting the two - was - was - .

An hour later, John left the bedsit in a soft, striped blue jumper; a pair of grey sweatpants that Harry had worn soft before she gave them to him; a black shooting jacket; and trainers that, thanks to his tremor, had taken him a humiliatingly long time to tie. He fought to keep his expression blank as he made his way to Ella’s office, his cane slipping on the wet pavement, cold water striking his face as the December wind rattled the leaves.

*

No amount of therapeutic jargon, John decided, could hide the fact that he was a used-up bastard sitting on a threadbare carpet in a circle of used-up bastards. Ella had done her level best to make the group feel welcome - she had brought in lamps and fairy lights rather than use the group room’s unsparing fluorescent overheads; she had laid out cushions and body pillows and yoga mats to make the floor more comfortable; she had queued up some instrumental Christmas carols; and she had, on the table next to the markers and name tags, sat down a reed-filled diffuser that made the space smell of gingerbread and vanilla and that reminded John of childhood holidays at his gran’s house - but it was clear that her patients, all of whom were assiduously not looking at one another, would rather not be there.

Would rather not be _any_ where, really. Which was how they’d landed in therapy in the first place.

“Welcome,” Ella said, looking from person to person with a gentle smile. She sat straight-backed and crossed-legged, a small emerald silk cushion resting in her lap. “This is Hold On For The Holidays, our touch therapy group for trauma survivors in recovery. As you can see, this is the co-ed section; if you meant to attend one of the single-sex sections, I’m afraid you’ve made a hash of it. Feel free to leave and try again on Thursday.”

A heavyset woman to John’s left in pyjamas and a blue dressing gown - Kate, according to her nametag - laughed without opening her mouth or smiling. The other patients were silent.

“We’ll run through the ground rules,” Ella continued, “which we’ll do every time even though we’ll all be bored to death of them by Christmas, and then I’ll lead you through a brief exercise. After that, you’ll have the remainder of the session to devote to self-directed touch therapy. Everyone with me?”

“Pretty sure I learned everything there is to know about ‘self-directed touch therapy’ back at Catterick,” muttered a young man whose name tag had BAINBRIDGE crossed out and, written beneath it in neat block letters, STEPHEN. 

He was infantry, then. Or had been. John had wondered if he would be the only non-civilian in the group. He wasn’t. Something muted and distant that might have been relief stirred within him.  

“And _I’m_ pretty sure that the ‘self-directed touch therapy’ you did at Catterick would get you thrown out of this group before you could pull your hand from your trousers, Stephen,” Ella answered without missing a beat or raising her voice. “Now let’s go over the rules, shall we?”

A slender woman with shoulder-length curly hair, freckles, and a generous mouth - Sally - smirked without raising her gaze from the floor in front of her, while a man in a grey knit cap whose tag claimed his name was “Westie” looked sidelong at Stephen and grimaced.

Stephen’s brown eyes went wide before he nodded and murmured, “Yes, ma’am.” 

“Excellent.” Ella folded her hands and rested them on the cushion in her lap. “First things first: never touch _any_ one unless they tell you that it’s all right for you to do so. If you’re nonverbal and you want to consent, language boards are” - Ella briefly tilted her head to her right. - “in the cabinet behind Janine and Mary. Be as specific as you can about what you intend to do. Any sexual conduct, even consensual - or solitary,” she continued with a wry look in Stephen’s direction, “is cause for immediate dismissal. Are we clear?”

Ella made eye contact with each person in turn and waited to hear or see their confirmation; then she nodded, firmly, once. “Good. Now, for this exercise - for _any_ thing we do here - keep in mind that you only participate if you want to. Whether you participate or not, you are free to change your mind at any time - stop when you want to stop, and join when you want to join.” She let go of the silk cushion and reached out her arms to either side. “If you’d like to take part now, please stay in the circle and take your neighbours’ hands.”

The group rustled and broke into conversation as it complied. John, who had endured more than enough teambuilding exercises in basic training, would have rolled his eyes if he had had the energy to spare; instead, he took Kate’s hand in his left and Westie’s in his right. He had to scoot forward to close the gap when the man on the other side of Westie stood up and stalked to the nearest corner of the room, then sat with his back against the wall, folded his long legs and clutched them to his chest, and jammed a black pillow between his face and his knees. There was no name tag on his red dressing gown or on his ratty grey t-shirt. He turned his head and pressed one cheek against the pillow, his dark hair falling in unruly waves across his pale forehead.

John didn’t realise that he had been staring until he looked away. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the woman Ella had called Mary - who was fit and blond and _Jesus_ John should have dressed less like a washed-up ex-Army doctor and more like a wounded war vet on the pull - wink at him over a mischievous half-smile.

John turned toward Mary, his hands still in Kate and Westie’s. “I’m not gay,” he said across the general hubbub, which - of course, of fucking _course_ \- chose that precise moment to become a quiet lull. 

All eyes turned to John’s, each expression conveying some degree of scepticism.

“So what we’re going to do,” said Ella, breaking the silence as John’s blood rushed to his head, “is pass a squeeze around the circle. We’ll go counterclockwise. I’ll start.”

There was no time for John to dwell on the roiling mess of his thoughts: Kate squeezed his left hand; he squeezed Westie’s with his right; Kate squeezed; he squeezed; a rhythm emerged. _Left_ -right, _left-_ right, _left_ -right.

A pulse.

John let his eyes close. He felt his shoulders relax, aching and stiff and incremental. He felt Kate’s hand supporting his as his tremor waxed and waned.

The pulse stopped.

“Well done,” Ella said, her voice low and calm. Slowly, she brought her hands to the cushion in her lap. “That was lovely. Please do as you like for the remainder of our time today; if you need any suggestions beyond what we discussed in individual session, or if you have any questions, please let me know. I’ll be sitting just there.” John opened his eyes and saw her point to a large pillow behind him just before she stood and said, “Enjoy.”

There was a moment when John thought no one would speak, or move, or leave the circle. The lights were low. The music seemed to hold them still. But Janine lifted one eyebrow at Stephen, who lifted both eyebrows back, and they stepped away together; they whispered, briefly, then sat down facing each other, letting their held hands rest on their folded legs. Westie let go of John’s hand, Kate followed suit, and John was alone again.

“Well,” said Mary, her voice bright despite the dark circles beneath her eyes, “does anyone else fancy a shoulder rub? I could really go for one, and if we circle up, we won’t even have to wait our turn.”

Kate _ooh_ ed, Westie _mmm_ ed, Sally said, “Christ, yes,” and Mary shifted onto her knees to shuffle closer to all three of them, tilted her head, and asked, “John?”

_Say yes._

_Say yes._

_Say yes, damn you._

“Think I’ll sit this one out,” John said, and he moved to a vacant patch of floor, laid down on his back on a yoga mat, shoved a black and white damask pillow beneath his head, and pressed his lips into a tight, unhappy line.

The others were giggling. He couldn’t tell who. The carol was calm, string instruments weaving in and out of one another, but John’s heart raced. He clenched his left fist. Relaxed. Clenched. Counted to one two three _fuck_ this wasn’t working, it never worked, _he_ didn’t work and there was no fixing him so why was he here in the low light with the Christmas carol he couldn’t remember the bloody name of and the people who still remembered how to touch each other when he could be at his bedsit with his Sig and he could make his head go quiet, _really_ quiet, he could make it stay that way and he wouldn’t have to - . 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John blinked. Someone was resting their head on his stomach. He knew so because each inhale fought a weight, a literal one, and because his right hand had worked itself into someone’s curls and was gently massaging someone’s scalp.

Someone whose red silk robe and whose long folded legs registered in the corner of John’s eye.

“Weren’t you supposed to ask first?” John said, though he didn’t still his hand. “About touching me?”

The silence seemed fretful. “I wanted to listen to your heartbeat. Not good?”

“Bit not good, yeah.” Muscles tensed beneath John’s fingers; he rubbed small circles down the back of - well, _some_ one’s - neck. “And. Ah. Afghanistan.”

Someone hummed. “Thought so.”

“No you didn’t.” John carded his fingers through Someone’s hair. “You guessed.”

“I never guess!”

Feeling his way along Someone’s skin, John found Someone’s brow creased in indignation; he soothed it with his thumb until it relaxed, and then he said, “Then why’d you ask me?”

Someone paused. “You aren’t gay,” he said. He sounded pensive.

The beginnings of alarm stirred in John’s gut. “I’m not gay.”

John exhaled. Again. Again. Hoped that Mary had heard him speak.

A hand - large, calloused, warm, dry - closed tentatively around John’s wrist. “But you don’t mind.”

“No,” John agreed, exploring Someone’s palm with patient fingertips, “I don’t.”

It seemed to John that he could almost hear, could almost _feel_ , Someone filing that information away for future use and surrounding it with questions: don’t mind _what_ , exactly; how did you find that out; what is the best way for me to extract this information from you; how do I - _can_ I - make you stay.

John squinted at the ceiling and berated himself for imagining things. He didn’t know this man whose hand was in his and whose every exhale John felt on his own ribs. He didn’t know why the man had ended up here. He didn’t even know his name. 

“Blessed Be That Maid Mary,” Someone said, his words muffled against John’s jumper. John’s hand, John noticed, had cupped the side of Someone’s face and found soft skin, high cheekbones, the slightest scrape of stubble. 

“Eh?”

“The carol. Played it at a holiday recital, once. They made me wear a tie with gingerbread men on it, but even my oldest brother said that my performance was ‘adequate’.”

There was something about Someone’s voice that left John feeling that the admission, as simple as it had been, was a difficult one. A sort of offering to John, maybe, or a litmus test. 

“Your brother’s a twat,” John said firmly, moving his hand down Someone’s arm so he could take Someone’s hand in his. “Now shut up and hold on.”

There was a warm weight on John’s belly, a warm hand in his own. Someone became heavier, then heavier still, then softly snored. John breathed; and let the damask pillow hold his head; and breathed; and breathed; and heard the low chatter and occasional burst of laughter from the others; and breathed. 

“Sherlock,” said Someone.

John frowned. “What?”

“My name. I refuse to wear name tags, as I am no longer in primary school.”

_Sherlock_. It was a public school name with public school vowels and it seemed just right for the public school git who, John was increasingly beginning to suspect from the way his jumper’s soft fabric rubbed against his skin, had drooled on John in his sleep.

“If I could have your attention, please,” Ella said, startling John, “there are five minutes left. Let’s use them to circle up, briefly, before we finish for today.”

Working the stiffness from his shoulder, John began to sit up; Sherlock knelt beside him and stared at the floor. He looked even more distressed than he had at the beginning of the session. When John moved toward the forming circle, Sherlock didn’t follow. Irked, John glared at Sherlock, held out his hand, flicked his head - _come on, you great git_ \- and ignored the surprise in Sherlock’s pale eyes as he reached for John and scrambled forward. Sherlock settled at John’s side; Janine’s head rested on Mary’s shoulder; Sally and Kate smiled; Stephen punched Westie’s arm.

“I’m glad to see you warming up to one another,” said Ella, her voice and expression serene. “Let’s send the squeeze ’round the circle a few times, just as we did at the beginning, and then we’ll go our separate ways until next week.”

Stephen squeezed John’s hand; John squeezed Sherlock’s; Sherlock blinked, slowly. 

“Come on,” John murmured under his breath. “You can do this, Sherlock.”

There was no indication that Sherlock heard him; or, if he had, that Sherlock cared what John thought. 

Except, perhaps, that Sherlock squeezed Sally’s hand. Kept the group's pulse beating.

And stayed.

When the group finished, Ella stood. “All right, everyone. That’s all for today. I look forward to seeing each of you here, same time, next Tuesday.”

_Next Tuesday_. The others began to pack up their things as John pictured another week of cold mornings and sleepless nights, of _alone_ again, of having nowhere he wanted to be on Christmas, of not knowing how to talk to people - of not trying to, anymore - .

“Hi,” said Mary, who stood over John and Sherlock and offered each of them a gloved hand. She smiled, crinkles forming at the corners of her large blue eyes; the glow from the fairy lights caught in her bright blond hair, and her pink scarf stood out against her red coat. “I don’t suppose that you two would like to take me to coffee? Or I can take you. And it doesn’t have to be coffee. Both of you, me, on a date - that’s what I’m after, really.”

“We’re not a couple,” said John, just as Sherlock said, “We aren’t looking for a third.”

Amusement showed on Mary’s expressive face as she helped John, then Sherlock, to his feet. “Sorry. I seem to have caught you in a domestic.”

“No,” John grimaced as he shrugged into his coat and took up his cane, “we aren’t having a domestic, because _we aren’t a couple_.”

“It can certainly feel that way when you’re cross with each other,” said Mary, who wrinkled her nose in sympathy.

John resisted, barely, the urge to squeeze his eyes shut and pinch the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. Well. Coffee sounds great, anyway. D’you know of a place we can go around here, or - .”

“As a matter of fact, I do, and this time of year, they do drinks with eggnog in,” Sherlock interrupted. John and Mary exchanged a look as Sherlock adjusted the blue scarf around his neck, turned up his collar, and jammed his hands into his pockets. “Merry Christmas to us. Now come along, and do keep up. I’ve no intention of slowing down for either of you.”

Long strides took Sherlock halfway down the corridor, Mary half-jogging at his side to match his pace, before John pursed his lips, muttered, “Merry fucking Christmas, indeed,” and followed, trying - and failing - to keep the smile from his face.  

 


End file.
